There's a car behind me
on the stretch of old interstate
between Artistes and Centralia.
Barren road besides us.
Rub my eyes, check the mirror,
and just like that
they're gone.
Relief, I can slow down a bit.
Hate holding folk up
in this old Peterbilt.

They never play sad songs
on the radio anymore.
DJs are emotional doctors
prescribing me how to feel.
I miss the radio,
seems it don't miss me.

Still trucking,
but basking
in that ringing gold.

Lone open road,
I'll get there and
there ain't nothing
wrong with that.
Though, tomorrow I'll wake
and not want to start again.

Every morning.

Never want to start any more.

But once I get going,
well, it's not so bad.

Flip the radio on
and just be begrudgingly happy.